THE COLOR YELLOW, LOVE, THE FALL OF LEAVES IN AUTUMN by Roy Bentley • Cleaver Magazine
Some days in May, a sunrise of redbuds will apron the clouds and light pour across development lawns gold with dandelions. My father told me living with others was a matter of knowing when to weed and when to mow. I don’t know how he woke without fail at six-ten, Monday through Friday, year after year. How he got ready for work—showered, shaved—and collected a prepared-ahead-of-time sack lunch and a Thermos of coffee. Sleeping in was a poor excuse for working to retire in Florida where the shirts-on-the-clothesline May air just isn’t the same. Mother said the light there was numbing, in the Sunshine State, but she respected my pops whose idea it'd been to move there. Love was working like he did. Love was keeping his clothes laundered. Setting that brown-bag lunch where he expected it. In the Florida town where they lived he said he missed autumn. The settling-to-earth of leaves. Seeing oaks and maples scrawl reds and yellows like signatures across the fall sky above lawns, by the stop sign on Lucky Avenue and State Route 79. He hated poetry. Called it “useless,” though his world stank of moments that overfill houses like the scent of coffee brewing the hour before light clothes you and you set off to weed and mow.
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